In These Days of Mine
by Emoryems
Summary: Daryl doesn't have a thing to prove. Genderswap. Daryl-centric ensemble. Discussion/references/depictions of abuse, sexism, violence, and explicit swearing.
1. Chapter 1

"Where you goin'?"

Daryl glances behind her to the opening of her tent where Merle is leaning inside, muddy boots stepping on the bottom zipper.

She ignores him, turning back to her bag and checking that everything is there. Water, a single protein bar, extra ammo for her pistol, and her bolt repair kit. Not much, but all she needs.

Merle moves further into the tent, coming to stand behind her. "I asked you a question," Merle says, eyes narrowed.

"Didn't get nothin' yesterday, and we ain't got meat to last another day," she says, standing and strapping her buck knife to her hip. "There's sign of some whitetail hunkerin' not far to our east." She picks up her crossbow last, relishing the weight of it in her hand. "I'll be back before tomorrow night."

When she tries to move around Merle, he blocks her exit. "We got that run to Atlanta today," he says. "You just gonna up and leave me with those pussies?"

Daryl raises her brows, unimpressed. "You need me to hold your hand there, brother? Them city-folk too much for you to handle?"

Merle's lips twist into a scowl. "I'll handle them just fine."

"Then let me by." She steps forward, shoving her shoulder into Merle's, making her brother shift. She is halfway out the tent when Merle grabs her in a strong hold, both of his hands tight on her upper arms.

"You better watch your tone, girl," Merle says. His hands tighten further. "I think you should stop tryin' to act all butch-like. Ain't no time to be putting on a show, like you got yourself some big balls between your legs there."

Daryl doesn't try to pull out of Merle's grip, and she can feel her chest tightening with anger and something else, something she doesn't want to think about. "I don't see you goin' out, bringin' back no food."

"And if you didn't give all of our food away to everyone around, we could be focusing on what we're here for, instead of worrying about our next meal." Merle's voice lowers, his face lowering so he's nearly level with her. "You do remember what that is?"

A fission of guilt and rage bursts in Daryl's chest, and she lifts her hands up and twists her arms outward, breaking her brothers' hold. "I'm goin'." With that, she strides away.

"Why don't you go wash some dishes there Darylina," Merle yells after her. "Make yourself useful for once. Not like you're doin' any good out there."

Daryl doesn't bother even stopping, lazily flipping her brother the bird as she swings her crossbow to rest across her back. "Go fuck yourself, Merle," she says, slipping into the trees and out of sight.

She knows that Merle is being glared at by Andrea, and that Shane is shaking his head from where he is reinforcing the fences around their camp. They can deal with her brother until she gets back from this hunt; she'd rather they put up with his bored harassment then see what happens when she finally punches the dumb bastard in his over-used mouth.

Her eyes follow the forest floor easily, trailing over a small game trail heading for the water behind, but she isn't looking for little game today. She's seen fresh deer scat just over the next ridge, and had spotted some areas where the animals had been bedding down. Now, in the heat of the day, she hopes to find them there.

Merle's words follow her, though, pulling down her shoulders and her thoughts. He is right about one thing; she hasn't gotten more than a couple of squirrels, and two rabbits in the last two hunts. Not enough to feed her for a couple of days, much less a camp full of people.

But she doesn't have the luxury of giving up. She never has.

That evening, as the sun reaches its last lingering rays over the western sky, Daryl sighs and strings one last squirrel onto the line, then wanders to where she thinks is best to see deer in the morning.

There is a large tree, one with big branches that are high enough up to hide her from sight, but not too high to climb. A good place to spend a night, and then start anew at dawn.

The next morning she is propped in the groove where two branches diverge eight feet up, her crossbow balanced on her knees. There is tall grass all around the small clearing she is watching, the trees providing shade and allowing only a small bit of sunlight to dapple the ground.

Her eyes have tracked a few pheasants passing through since sunup, but she doesn't act. There is bigger fair out there, she knows it, and she isn't going back to camp without a deer dragging in her wake.

She is about to shift, her ass having gone numb long ago, when a squirrel to her left and behind kicks up a fuss, chattering away at something. Her grip tightens, and she leans forward enough that she can see to the side.

Nothing that she can see between the trees and bush, but something is there, and now she can hear leaves crunching, and a low, groaning breath. A walker.

Heart rate picking up, Daryl shifts just enough that she is turned toward the noise. She brings the crossbow up just in time for the walker to come into sight, and she takes careful aim. The thing isn't coming her way, is in fact a good eighty feet out and heading away from where they have set up camp.

Biting her lip, she debates going after it. But then, watching as the rotten body shuffles away, decides it's not worth it. It's not headed for camp, and she risks kicking up a commotion by chasing it down. Better to let it wander off.

Settling back down between the branches, she lets her chin drop to her chest. She's never seen a walker up this far into the mountains. They've mostly stuck to the cities, where most of the people are. Were.

They might be needing better fences.

Another noise to her left has her crossbow up and her eyes scanning the forest. The squirrel isn't nattering away this time, leaving the forest quiet except for the sound of an occasional bird. But there, again, a hint of a noise.

Crossbow up and ready, Daryl's eyes catch sight of movement. Something brown passes slow behind some trees, heading in her way. She smiles a little, unconsciously.

Ten minutes later, her finger tightens on the trigger and her bolt flies true. A good hit to the deer's neck leaves a trail of thick blood for her to track as it runs; there's a lot, and she knows the animal won't go far.

Grabbing the rope with the squirrels and throwing it over her shoulder, Daryl drops to the ground, feet light and fast as she follows her prey.

It is only by some stroke of rare luck that she finds herself tracking her deer back in the way of camp. Field dressing and dragging the animal back will be easier this way, and she will be able to butcher the meat and get it out of the hot Georgian summer heat faster.

A half hour later and the blood trail is getting weaker, and she can see where the whitetail has laid down at least once in exhaustion. It won't be long, now.

She is just beyond the edge of the camp when she hears a 'thud', and a soft huffing that soon dissipates into silence. She can see where the deer collapsed, and is a mere twenty feet away when she hears a scream.

Instantly she is up and running, crossbow loaded and ready. As she gets closer she can see the boy, Carl, and the little girl, Sophia, scrambling away as a walker lunges at them. She doesn't think, doesn't have time to do anything else; she lines up the shot and pulls the trigger. Her bolt misses by barely an inch, imbedding itself in the walker's neck.

Swearing, knowing she doesn't have time to reload, she pulls her knife from its sheath and runs at the walker. The thing is too busy going for the children to turn on her, and she uses that distraction to grab the thing by its hair and bury her blade into its cranium.

The walker drops to the ground, and she finds herself with a handful of brown-grey hair and skin as the scalp pulls away from bone.

As she stares down at the walker, she can hear voices and the sound of feet trampling the ground. Carl and Sophia are sobbing, and as their parents descend upon them, Daryl watches the children run into their arms.

Lori is frantically checking that Carl is in one piece, looking over his limbs, and smoothing down his hair. Sophia is similarly in her mother's arms. Shane, Jim, Glenn, Morales, and Dale aren't much further behind, all of them coming to stand in a semi-circle around the downed walker.

As they settle, Daryl notices an unfamiliar face. The man is lanky, with short brown hair and brilliantly blue eyes.

Shrugging off the new addition to their group, she leans down, feeling their eyes on her, and with one hand tugs the blade from the walker's head. Her other hand is wiped crudely in the dirt and grass, leaving behind clumps of hair and skin.

When she is upright again, having sheathed her blade, Daryl looks from face to face. "What? Y'all got a problem?"

Dale shifts his stance, staring at the walker. "They've never been this far up the mountain," he says.

Jim nods. "Food's running low in the cities, is my guess."

Daryl nods to herself, then jerks her chin at the walker. "Just this one bastard, from what I've seen." She shrugs when they look to her. "Went by me a few hours ago."

She is about to head for the deer, to start gutting the animal, when Shane strides up to her.

"You knew a walker was this close to the camp, and you just let it be?" he says, voice tight and lips tighter.

Taking a step back without thought, Daryl feels anger at the man's invasion of her space. "It weren't headed this way, man."

"Obviously it was." Shane huffs.

Daryl looks back at the walker. He's right, but she doesn't feel the need to reassess her decision. The damn thing had been headed in the other direction. "It's taken care of," she says, shrugging.

She shifts the squirrels higher on her shoulder and turns away from Shane, intent on getting to work. She doesn't get far before a hand grabs her shoulder.

"We're not done –"

Spinning around, Daryl smacks Shane's hand away with enough force that she knows they'll both be sporting a bruise. She is quick to bring the hand back up, finger pointing into Shane's surprised face. "You do not touch me."

Shane opens his mouth, eyebrows knotted angrily.

"Shane."

Daryl sees the new guy, white shirt too big and spotted with blood. He joins them, hand coming up to rest on Shane's shoulder. "Let it go," he says.

Daryl growls under her breath. She can fight her own damn battles.

But right now, she's tired and just wants to get on with the deer; venison for dinner sounds just right. Seeing all of the faces, Glenn and Andrea there in the group still hanging back, she knows exactly what to do. Her lazy-ass brother was back from the run, and he had better be ready to help her, or she was going to kick the ugly bastard in the balls.


	2. Chapter 2

Camp is quiet as Daryl strides toward the centre of it, and even as she calls for Merle to get his fool ass out and help her, the hair on the back of her neck stands up. The others in their group are giving her a wide berth, wary as they watch her put the line of squirrels down. The air suddenly feels heavy in her lungs, and the sun beats down oppressively.

"What?" she says, demandingly, staring each and every one of them down. "What y'all staring at?"

Shane walks forward first, his hands out beside him, placating. "Now Daryl, there's been an incident."

"Merle?" she asks, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah," says Shane. His eyes meet hers for a moment, then he glances away as though ashamed.

There is a vice gripping her throat, and it's hard to breathe as her stomach turns to lead. "Dead?" she says, almost to herself, and then, "you put him down proper?" She almost doesn't want an answer to that. Because what if her brother is walking around with those sightless eyes and endless hunger, all of him lost to the infection except a meat puppet?

"He ain't dead." New guy, this time. "Or at least we don't think so."

A flame, so small it wouldn't stand a flap of a butterfly's wings, lights in her gut. It's hope, and she squishes it down. Hope ain't never been her friend, and it isn't going to start now. What she needs now is to fix this fucking gongshow and get her brother back.

"Where is he, then? He hurt?"

T-Dog takes a single, hesitant, step forward and says, "He's still in Atlanta."

Gritting her teeth, frustrated and ready to punch the next person who gives a half-answer, Daryl clenches her fists. "You left him behind?"

She sees more than one of the group cringe, but it's T-Dog who looks like he might puke down his own front.

"He's handcuffed to a pipe on a roof." The new guy looks her in the eyes as he says it, plain and simple. "I had to do it; he was a danger to every one of us."

The urge to curl up and push the world away wars with the blinding fury that settles like a hurricane in her chest. It's the rage that wins, as it always does, and she doesn't give the asshole who stranded her brother the time to even try to block her as she lashes out, catching the man with a solid punch to his mouth. She feels her knuckles tear on his teeth, but doesn't care beyond inflicting as much damage as possible.

Before she even lands a second hit, or can get her knife unholstered, however, Shane has grabbed her from behind, arm wrapped around her shoulders and pinning her arms. His entire body is pressed to her back, and as she struggles against his hold, wave after wave of nausea and rage surge under her skin.

"You'd better let me go," she growls out. "I will fucking cut your dick off and shove it down your throat." The jackass is lowering her to the ground, grip so tight she can feel tingling in her fingers as her circulation is cut off. Good thing for him, she thinks, because the second he lets up she's going to gut him.

The new guy is wiping blood from his chin, and she wishes she had hit hard enough to knock a few of his teeth out. Struggling against the hold, Daryl manages to get enough movement in her right arm to drive an elbow into Shane's gut. The hit is good enough that she feels the man's exhale of breath against her hair, and it gives her the advantage to shove her shoulders back, pushing both of them over backward.

"Goddamn it," Shane yells as they hit the dirt, Daryl partially on top of his legs. He's quick, probably because of his cop training, and he manages to wrap an arm around her neck in a chokehold before she can wriggle out of his grasp.

The solid arm around her neck instantly cuts blood flow to her head, and it's less than ten seconds before her face is burning, and she can hear her heart's every wild thud like it is inside her eardrums. It's not until Shane tightens his arm enough to start cutting off her breathing, too, that Daryl stops struggling.

She can't see much, what with her hair hanging limply over her eyes and her head forced down, except for the cloud of settling dust that has been kicked up by the struggle.

"Now," new guy says, crouching down in front of her, "you gonna calm down?"

Daryl wants to spit in his face, kick dirt in his eyes, rip him to pieces. But she can see T-Dog, Andrea, Glen, all of the group gathered around. What good would it do? When she finally nods, just the barest of movements, black has started to frame her vision.

Shane releases her all at once, and she's suddenly on her knees gasping for breath. Looking up as her breathing settles, Daryl sneers at the new guy. "Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"Rick Grimes," he says.

Scoffing, Daryl pushes herself to her feet, eyeing Shane warily, and grabs her crossbow, then points at Rick's face. "Well Rick Grimes, you'd better watch your back."

Rick sighs and wipes a hand over his face, wincing as he brushes over the fresh split in his lip. "I didn't do what I did on some sort of whim," he says. "It was for all of our safety." He looks at her pointedly. "Including Merle's."

"Right," she says, once again pacing. "So why the fuck is he still up there?"

T-Dog clears his throat and moves just a few steps closer. "I lost the key to the cuffs."

A laugh rips out of Daryl, unbidden and harsh. "That's just wonderful. Good job, asshole. Why the hell didn't you find it?"

T-Dog shrugs, eyes falling away from hers. "It fell down a drain."

Pursing her lips, shaking with adrenalin and ready to fight anyone who even looks at her next, Daryl focuses back on Rick, and says, "Which building?"

Rick raises one eyebrow at her, like he didn't understand her question, and it sets her off again. "What fucking building did you leash my brother to, dipshit," she asks, this time letting her legs carry her so she's staring the man in the eyes.

"The old Norfolk Southern building on Spring Street, near the rail yard."

She pivots without a word, determination in her every movement as she strides to where they have parked the cube van.

"Hey, wait!"

Daryl ignores the protests she hears from behind as she hops into the open back and slams the rolling door closed behind her. She curses when the driver door is flung open before she can get there, then deposits her crossbow in the passenger seat and glares down at Rick.

"Get out," she says. When he stares hard at her for a minute, she snarls. "Get the fuck out of my way."

"You plannin' to go alone?" Rick has his head tipped to the side, eyes staring hard into hers.

"If I gotta," she says.

Rick nods his head sharply. "Well you don't." And then he walks away, back to camp.

Daryl shakes her head in disbelief. What was the point of that? "Asshole," she calls out the window as she slams the driver door shut, starts up the vehicle, and throws it into reverse.

She's about to pull away from camp, hand on the shift, when a loud knock on the passenger window sounds. Rick is standing there, a pair of bolt cutters held up just about as high as his eyebrows.

Rick opens the door, picks up her crossbow and puts it in the middle between the seats. "Not goin' to get very far without these," he says. And then he settles into the passenger seat and shuts the door behind him.

Daryl would like nothing more than to punch him in the mouth again, except that she can admit, albeit only to herself, that he is right.


End file.
